


(As Long As You're Not In Love With Anyone Else) Why Don't You Fall In Love With Me?

by nerddowell



Series: Stories From The Dance Hall [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dancer!Bucky, M/M, Pining, shop assistant!Steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 03:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4464488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerddowell/pseuds/nerddowell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>As long as you're not in love with anyone else<br/>
<em>Why don't you fall in love with me?</em></em>
</p><p>A modern AU Stucky one-shot based on the song '(As Long As You're Not In Love With Anyone Else) Why Don't You Fall In Love With Me?' by Dinah Shore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(As Long As You're Not In Love With Anyone Else) Why Don't You Fall In Love With Me?

**Author's Note:**

> Man, that title is hell to type out, holy shit. It's so long!
> 
> (Fortunately I'm using the public library WiFi so I didn't have to type out the 6,000-odd words of this out on my phone. Small mercies.)

The store is quiet, almost closing time, until the bell over the door rings and Steve looks up to see a gut-flutteringly handsome brunette, a laughing blonde on his arm, entering the store. The guy catches sight of the tiny cashier trying to hide behind his register and smiles in greeting; the girl gives Steve a once-over he's endured countless times before (the _looking-at-you-makes-it-very-hard-for-me-not-to-laugh_ once-over), and disappears between the racks of fifties cocktail dresses, circle skirts with bright patterns, and pretty silky blouses. Steve sighs, but allows himself to indulge in watching the brunette help her (a girlfriend, maybe? Christ, _look_ at him, of course a girlfriend - no fucking way he's single) choose some clothes.

She throws multiple patterned prom dresses - usually in nauseatingly cloying shades of pink, several of which will make her look like a raspberry meringue and will ruin her skintone (as an artist, Steve has a good eye for colour; the retro shop assistant job is purely to pay the bills). Steve tries to interject with things he thinks will suit her - directing her towards a slinkier-fitting navy blue dress that will bring out her hourglass figure - but is rejected with a scoff and a roll of her eyes. He flinches, withdrawing, and goes back to drawing on the discarded receipts of the previous few customers. He's drawn a monkey on a unicycle, a study of the dead wasp on the windowsill, and - embarrassingly - a rough sketch of the guy who just walked in, before the girl comes huffing back out of the changing rooms and shoving the dresses back on random hangers, muttering angrily about how they either wash her out or make her look like a blancmange.

He doesn't say the _I told you so_.

Meanwhile the boy is idling in the 30s section, where there are several khaki military style jackets hanging on padded clothes hangers. Steve loves the military fashions (he's living the twink cliché of having a thing for a man in uniform - Tony, the boss, often teases him about his "understandable" love for the Village People in regards to that, or wonders obnoxiously loudly whether Fireman Sam was his favourite television programme when he was younger. It was, but that was because Steve has always looked up to people who chose to help people as a career. But there is definitely something sexy about a man sliding down a pole he's clutching between his thighs - he's getting distracted), and wishes he had the kind of body that would look good in them. Broad-shouldered, lean but muscular, confident; like the brunette he currently can't stop watching.

(Steve did try one of the jackets on after closing one night, though. The result was hideous; even the smallest, tightest jacket hung off him, his narrow shoulders and spindly arms looking as though they'd been swallowed by the material, his scoliosis-twisted spine making the jacket hang awkwardly with the way his shoulders were never quite even or straight. He took it off quickly.)

The guy takes off his jacket, and Steve has to close his eyes and take a deep breath. The guy is built - built like a brick outhouse, as Bruce would say (putting it more politely than Tony) - and when he shrugs the jacket on, the material strains a little across his shoulders, belt cinched around his slim waist, fastening the brass buttons on the front with long, careful fingers. He looks fucking incredible. Steve can't decide whether he wants to peel that jacket, and the underlying form-fitting tshirt, off him to get his greedy hands on the guy's chest, or for him to keep it on - maybe paired with the uniform trousers, slicked-back hair and a cap. He swallows against a dry mouth.

The guy looks up, and notices Steve staring with probably glassy eyes and a hangdog expression. Steve flushes brilliant red and busies himself being flustered and trying to tidy the front desk; Tony comes out a moment later, dressed in his usual flamboyant albeit cuttingly modern style (something Steve has never understood, coming from a guy who owns a _retro_ store), clocks the irritated blonde still throwing dresses every which way, the guy in the jacket and Steve, away with the fairies (or, more accurately, away with the guy in the jacket and his mouth all over Steve's neck and his hands pushing beneath Steve's shirt). He raises one eyebrow.

Steve, if it's even possible, blushes even brighter. Tony rolls his dark eyes and smoothly goes to help the blonde find what she's looking for. It turns out that she and the guy are dance partners in a swing and jazz dance competition at the weekend, and as it's already Thursday, they're running out of time to find matching outfits. Tony jerks his head at the guy, telling Steve to handle him, and heads towards the back where their older stuff is. Steve has a short moment of panic, closing his eyes and swallowing hard, before going over to help.

The guy is hunting through the racks for matching trousers; Steve helps him locate a pair which look to be about his size, and hands them over carefully. The guy beams and thanks him, running a hand through his artfully tousled hair, bright grey eyes friendly and curious.

"So, your - your friend said you're dancing this weekend?" he asks, busying his hands with smoothing out creases in the hanging shirts and jackets. He doesn't look up for several moments, trying to get his breathing under control. The proximity he has to this guy is dangerous - his pulse is rising and a rush of heat is washing through his body from his face to his toes, and he doesn't need high blood pressure on top of his heart murmur and asthma and Christ knows how many other lung and chest related issues -

"Swing dancing, yeah," the guy nods. "Well, for part of it. Competition's Saturday afternoon."

"Oh," Steve says intelligently - very fuckin' smooth, Rogers, Christ - and then tacks on, "Good luck."

"Thanks," the guy smiles, eyes warm. Steve's stomach is doing flip-flops as he stares at the brunette's light blue-grey eyes, the long, thick lashes framing them, the smooth tan skin with the slight freckles. He's honestly probably the hottest fucking guy Steve has ever seen in his life, and he's friends with Thor (and Tony, but only Tony counts himself in that list. Well, Tony and his boyfriend-but-Tony-won't-admit-to-feelings-because-he's-an-asshole Bruce).

"So, uh, so what kind of music do you swing dance to?"

The guy smiles. "Well, for me and Sharon, when we're practising, we use some more modern stuff - I have a bunch of that electro-swing kind of stuff on my iPod-" and he reels off five or six different names, musicians Steve has never heard of, "but when we're doing competition stuff, it's the classics. Bing Crosby, Sinatra, Fred Astaire, Louis Armstrong kinda thing. The last few weeks we've been thinking about the whole wartime dance halls thing, with the G.I.s in their uniforms and the girls in bright colours - you know?" he suddenly asks Steve, and Steve has to think of a quick answer because he's been shamelessly admiring the figure-hugging cut of the military jacket around the guy's frame.

"Uh, no-"

The guy laughs. "I guess not... before your time, maybe. By about seventy years, I think." He grins cheekily at Steve, and there's a soft, swooping sensation in his stomach because _Jesus Christ_ , _he is so gone on that smile_. The guy hums a few bars of something, and Steve nods - never having heard the song before, but it sure sounds like something you could do a jitterbug (is that even a real dance? He's always had two left feet, he has no idea.) to.  
"Anyway, that's why the military theme. I'm lookin' for an Army uniform, and she'll be looking for something in kinda patriotic colours - you know, red, white and blue? It sounds dumb, I know, and stop me if I'm talking too much, I mean, you're the shop assistant, you're not paid to listen to morons stand around and talk ya ear off about their dance classes-" He stops self-consciously.

Steve wants nothing more than to hear that voice for the rest of his life. Sleepy in the mornings, laughing in the days, and hot and heavy in his ear at night as those strong hands roll him over and -  
"No, please, I don't mind. I might be able to help better if I know exactly what you're after, anyway."

"Uh, yeah, okay - well, for me, I need a shirt and tie, maybe a cap too - I'm not sure if we're allowed props, but it's part of the costume so maybe, y'know - and she'll need like, a dress, petticoats, shit like that. I dunno, girl stuff." He grins at Steve - _does this guy ever stop smiling? Honestly_ \- and Steve nods, sifting through a rack of shirts to pull out a heavy-duty cotton shirt in about the right shade of khaki green to match the jacket. There's probably a cap in the storeroom, so he heads to the back, and hears the guy still chattering away behind him. He's smiling all over his face as he spots what he's after - and then falls when he realises he's approximately three feet too short, and Tony is using the stepladder to fetch what looks like an old silk camisole from one of the packed boxes.

"-so we've been dancing together for five years, I mean, we make a really good couple on the floor even if I say so myself, but she's so good and she really knows the choreo and blocking back to front for every dance we do, I couldn't do it with anyone else-"

"Sorry to interrupt," Steve says guiltily, pointing at the hat, "but your cap's up there and I'm-" He trails off as the guy stretches up, easy as anything, and hooks the brim of the hat with long fingers, dragging it down off the shelf. His tshirt rides up over his hips, and _Christ_ , he's cut _everywhere_ \- abs like rock, and his happy trail is short and dark and Steve is finding it difficult to think what with all the blood that has just rushed south. He coughs awkwardly and hides his crotch with the armful of clothes. Tony shoots him a knowing wink and Steve blushes pillar-box red.

"...Thanks."

"No problem." The guy sets the cap on his head at a jaunty angle as the blonde girl - Sharon, was it? - comes through the door into the storeroom, wearing a red silk blouse and blue circle skirt, full white petticoats ruffled underneath; she beams at him and flutters her eyelashes coyly as his jaw drops a little. Steve's stomach sinks through the floor as he wraps his arm around her waist and she giggles, "What'cha think, Sarge?", tipping his hat with soft, delicate fingers. He grins back and squeezes her closer.

"I think we're gonna wipe the floor with 'em, babydoll," he says in an exaggerated version of his own Brooklyn accent, like a 1940s G.I. in an old movie. She laughs and nods, pointing her toes and shuffling quickly, dancing easily in the little white kitten-heeled mules on her feet, and his blinding smile as he watches her makes Steve feel, absurdly, like he's going to cry. He doesn't even know the guy's name, for Christ's sake -

"C'mon, James - _Sarge_ ," Sharon giggles, and Steve looks up at the ceiling with a _Why, God?_ face.

But still.

 _James_.

* * *

Steve does a spot of internet stalking that night on Google (which he will neither confess nor admit to within ten miles of a certain Tony Stark, lest he get even more blackmail material to hold Steve hostage with whenever he feels the need to use it), and finds out that there's a swing dance competition in the NYU main campus, in one of the central halls. Tickets are only a few dollars, slightly more on the day - it's not a national competition, or even statewide from what he can tell, just one for the university society and a couple of rival teams - and there, on the organisers' page, is James' devastatingly handsome face, smiling widely. Steve's stomach fills with butterflies (he's got it bad, Jesus, God help him if Tony ever finds out - he'll never hear the end of it), and he books tickets with his already overdrawn credit card. His finances are tight - they always are - but he can afford a few dollars to see whether James looks as good dancing in that sergeant's uniform as he does in his scruffy-chic hoodie, leather jacket and skinnies, with the cap.

The answer is, of course, a resounding _yes_.

The hall is a cavernous octagon, with wooden parquet floors and partially-wood-panelled walls, benches and chairs for spectators laid around the very edges, and around twelve sets of dance partners in the centre, chattering idly and complimenting each other on their outfits. James is with Sharon, and Steve is disappointed to see him wearing a simple white dress shirt, a tie and expertly-tailored black pants, tight around his thighs and highlighting his rear (he has an ass like a peach, _Christ_ , that boy is going to be the absolute _death_ of Steve). Sharon matches him in a black prom dress with a white ribbon keeping her hair off her face, already curled and expertly pinned into the style Steve recognises as 'victory rolls'. His heart gives an excited jump. So they are going to be performing in the outfits - not that he particularly cares about Sharon, but James is going to be wearing that perfectly-fitting jacket and the cap and Steve is quite possibly going to have an aneurysm right there in the dance hall at the sight.

He takes a deep breath to control himself and tries to refocus his attention as the couples sit on their reserved benches and the announcer steps forward with his microphone.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the Strictly Savoy Swing and Jazz dance competition!" He gestures to the couples on the bench, some of whom smile and wave, friendly - James included, Steve notices - and others who sit, aloof, without a reaction (Sharon, and the redhead beside her). "We've got partners from our own NYU-" a cheer from some of the spectators, and the announcer grins, "but also from dance classes and studios from all over New York. Competing today are Peter Parker and Mary Jane Watson, Clint Barton and Natalia Romanova, James Barnes and Sharon Carter, Phil Coulson and Maria Hill..." Steve's ears perk up, glances at James on the bench, his soft smile and bright blue-grey eyes, and smiles to himself.

He suddenly has a terrible, terrifying thought. What happens if James is awful? If he is honest-to-God an even worse dancer than Steve himself?

(Impossible. But the thought won't leave Steve's head, and he's suddenly sick with nerves for James.)

The first couple to be called is Natalia and Clint; Clint is a handsome sandy-haired guy with visible hearing aids in both ears, and Natalia is the fierce-looking redhead who had been sat next to Sharon with such a bored expression. Their first dance is a familiar swing song from the soundtrack of a tv show Steve watched for maybe the first season, the one about the dead girl and her socially awkward boyfriend (which deeply struck a chord with Steve). Their dance is almost slow, with fierce concentration on both of their faces. Natalia is by far the better dancer, clearly having been trained for years, although Clint seems to be genuinely enjoying himself. Or maybe Natalia just suffers from resting bitchface, a condition Steve has been assured by his (admittedly few) female friends _does_ exist.

The next song is Peter and Mary Jane, and they pull a swing remix of Beyoncé's _Crazy In Love_ ; they're evidently more keen than skilled (particularly after Natalia and her perfect, graceful movements), but that's not necessarily a bad thing. Steve finds their dance more enjoyable than the previous pair, for the amount of times he sees Peter clumsily step on Mary Jane's toes, and the way they look at each other - like they're having the time of their lives just dancing together. Steve is sure Peter would get on well with Thor; Thor is equally clueless, often clumsy, but puppyish and energetic. (Tony calls him the Swedish Golden Retriever.)

James and Sharon get called next, a fast-paced song with a catchy piano up-and-down melody, and Steve finds it all but impossible to drag his eyes away from James' body, smooth and confident in his movements, and his mouth wide and grey eyes laughing as he leads the dance. He kicks his legs and swings Sharon out gracefully, head turned playfully toward her as though teaching her the moves; she beams back at him, copying his movements and tossing her head, smiling as he takes her hands and they trade short, rotating movements on the balls of their feet. Steve has never seen two people have more of a blast together; James looks like he genuinely enjoys this - even more so than Peter - and yet he has Natalia's focused control over his body, and Steve is so gone over this boy, honestly.

The next few dancers pass in a blur of excited, retro beats and brass/piano melodies, Michael Bublé and Frank Sinatra and Mr. Scruff; some songs that Steve recognises, others he's never heard before. His favourites are, of course, everything that James and Sharon dance to - the first one by Parov Stelar, the second a Bublé cover of _Georgia On My Mind_ , slow and delicate and beautiful, more ballroom than jazz.

The announcer calls a break, after which the couples will return to dance their last dance, after which the judging will be held and the winners will be announced. Steve looks around for James, but he's disappeared along with the others, probably for the costume change. His heart is pounding, anticipation racing through his veins - it's ridiculous, honestly, the amount he's looking forward to this song even though he's not even dancing it, only _watching_ \- and then, after an excruciating, millennia-long wait (okay, only thirty minutes, but honestly, Steve just wants to see the full effect), Natalia and Clint's last dance is announced. They're being brought out one by one this time, as opposed to waiting in the wings on their benches.

Natalia and Clint dance to Nat King Cole's _You Stepped Out Of A Dream_ , full of trombones and trumpets and strong beats, and Natalia seems to finally let herself go, and plays the coy girl courted by Clint as he follows her around the dancefloor like a lovesick puppy. It's perfectly performed, and Steve is laughing with her every pretend shake of the head only to turn and press coy kisses to his cheeks, and he's not the only one. He only realised during the break, upon overhearing his neighbours' conversations, that none of the dances are permitted choreographed moves; suddenly James' expression and playful teacher-like manner make sense.

Peter and Mary Jane dance to Louis Armstrong's _I've Got The World On A String_ ; Phil and Maria, to _We're In The Money_ , from that Fred Astaire musical. They're good, but Steve's jangling nerves are awaiting one couple and one couple only - all he wants to see is James in his uniform, that strong, smart body moving in the form-fitting jacket and tailored trousers. Finally, after what seems like hours, the opening of the Andrews Sisters' _Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy_ \- a stylised reveille, on a trumpet - plays, and out sashays Sharon in her costume, lips bright scarlet and eyes glowing. She pretends to salute, shuffles a little on the spot - twisting her hips and flicking her legs out from the knee, moving her hands and flashing perfectly manicured scarlet nails - until out strolls James, smirking, and he salutes back, before joining in.

The dance is glorious, of course; lively and funny, James playing the absolute goof, but his dancing clearly well thought out and flawlessly executed - but Steve is paying almost no attention to the actual dance itself. His eyes are glued to James' backside in those tight-fitting pants, the slim waist cinched in slightly by the military belt, the hat at a jaunty angle on his head and his glowing, brilliant cheeky smile. He is, simply put, entranced.

James' face is slightly flushed, his chest rising and falling quickly, sweat beginning to mist over his forehead and temples, but he never stops laughing, never stops dancing, never stops looking so fucking happy and alive and beautiful that it makes Steve feel like he's been kicked in the gut.

Of course they win.

They have a victors' dance, to Frank Sinatra's _Call Me Irresponsible_ , and Steve almost cries as James leads Sharon effortlessly across the floor in a beautiful, emotional slow dance (Steve doesn't know the names, never has; all he knows is, James is dancing with Sharon like it's the first dance at their wedding and he's so in love with her he can't stand to let her go for a moment. Full of dips and slow turns that make her skirt flare around her waist and her hair tumble over his arm as he bends her gently back). The pair of them moving together - from the fast Lindy hops and jives at the start, to this slow number now - is entrancing; they fit together like a hand and a glove, like soulmates, made for each other. Steve can't even find it in himself to be too bitter (although he does allow himself _one_ moment of weakness), because of the way James looks at her. He visibly worships her - so in love he can't hide it; it shows in every glance of his grey-blue eyes in her direction.

He kisses her at the end of the dance, slow and soft, and pulls away equally slowly when the music ends. Steve gets up and leaves, braving the freezing Brooklyn wind because he has to walk out before the disappointment makes him do something awful, like throw up. Or cry, uncontrollably, for hours.

* * *

Steve sees James almost constantly over the next few weeks. He's always coming into the shop to pick up bits and pieces for more dance costumes and outfits; eventually, he even begins making conversation - real conversation, instead of just nodding and asking if James needs any help with finding whatever it is he's looking for. He finds out that James goes by Jamie or Jay to most people, and that he was named after President Buchanan; he finds out he's nineteen years old - _nineteen!_ Jesus, Steve feels like such a pervert - and ends up calling him 'Bucky' by accident - it just slipped out - but it made the kid smile that blinding, adorable smile and so he was determined that it stick. He learned that Bucky's favourite colour was red, that the chain around his neck belongs to his late biological (he's adopted) father's dog tags, and that his favourite song he's ever danced to was Elvis Presley's _Surrender_. It was a fast, tango kind of thing, apparently, to begin with, and then it turned sweet and loving - and that was how he got together with Sharon. They've been together three years, and he's pretty sure she's the one for him.

Steve tries to smile, and it probably comes out a kind of sick-looking grimace, so he lets it drop quickly before Bucky can call him out on it. He changes the tape on the store music player the next day to a compilation of Elvis, though, and the next time Bucky comes in, he beams all over his face as he hears the familiar voice. It almost heals the crack in Steve's heart, the feeling of loss even though he's never even had in the first place. It makes him want to punch something, and even Tony is being sympathetic (well, as sympathetic as Tony is capable of being, which is honestly not very).

Bucky is so friendly, though - so kind, so chatty, so obscenely gorgeous and heartbreakingly sweet and Steve can't even hate him for making it so hard for him to get over this ridiculous crush he's got on the boy - that Steve can't help falling in love with him (and he _totally fucking blames_ that Elvis soundtrack he's got gently whispering out of the store speakers for that). Sometimes, he brings Sharon, and that makes it easier. Steve withdraws more those days; Bucky casts confused looks his way, but he just offers sad smiles and goes to rearrange things in the storeroom until they've gone.

Tony confronts him about it one day. "Rogers, you're a moron. A cute moron, I'm told by mutual acquaintances, but a moron all the same. The kid is in here practically every day asking where you go the moment you see him walk through the door, and you can't keep ignoring our customers. It looks rude."

Steve knows. He knows he's being a fucking coward, acting like a teenage girl with a teenage girl's crush on a cute boy. He just... he can't go back out there if Bucky is here. Out of sight, out of mind is almost working for him at the moment; another ten minutes in the storeroom and he'll have almost managed to force himself to forget all about him and the fluttering he gives Steve in his stomach whenever he sees him.

" _Rogers_ ," Tony says in his exasperated warning tone, and Steve groans.

"Tony, please." He sighs heavily. "Fine, I'll go back out, but... but I'm not looking at him, I'm not talking to him, and I'm not helping him more than I have to. I can't - I've gotta nip this in the bud. He's practically engaged, for Christ's sake." He gets the feeling he's trying to convince himself more than Tony. Tony seems to have the same impression, and nods sardonically.

"Okay, sure, big guy. Now get out there, damn it."

Bucky is by the military jackets again, an unusual uncomfortable set to his shoulders, and Steve's chest tightens. The boy's eyes are unsure, sad, as he looks up at Steve, worrying at his lower lip with his teeth as he fidgets, lacing and unlacing his long, elegant fingers. Elvis is singing in the background again - Steve really needs to change that fucking tape back because _Always on My Mind_ is not what he needs to be hearing right now.

_Maybe I didn't treat you quite as good as I should have_

"Hey," Bucky says in a small voice, a small voice that speaks of hours of replaying every last moment in his head, of staying up for countless sleepless hours at night fretting, of worry stomach-aches and headaches and just general downright misery - and Steve knows exactly how he feels, because that's exactly what he's been doing for the past month since the dance competition, too. Only Bucky's had the extra pressure of worrying what the hell he's done wrong for Steve to have pushed him away suddenly - and Steve's had to deal with forcing himself to try and get over someone who's not going anywhere from where they've wriggled under his skin and stayed there, a splinter of sunlight, warming his veins and shining in his chest and making him feel like he's walking on clouds. He's always said he's too far gone for this kid, and seeing Bucky again - letting that beautiful face fill his sight, even as contorted with confusion and sadness and, Christ, _hurt_ as it is - is making all of that rush back.

"Hey," he says lamely.

"I've been in a couple times-" _Fifteen, if Tony's to be believed_ \- "the past few weeks, and I've not seen you in ages? Did you go on holiday or somethin'?"

Both of them know damn well that that's not true in the least, but bless him, he's trying to be brave. And Steve feels like shit, even worse than usual.  
"Uh, no, I've just been - been in the back room, y'know, tidying and stuff-"

_Little things I should've said and done, I never took the time_

"Oh," Bucky says, nodding weakly. "Right." And then: "I missed you."

"You did?" Steve asks, and Jesus, he is the biggest fucking asshole in the world - the fucking worst. Bucky is squirming in front of him, unease radiating off him, hurt and confusion - he knows Steve's been hiding from him, has probably seen the tail end of a scrawny little blond heading into the storeroom and shutting the door behind him, shutting Bucky out, shutting him away in the corner of Steve's mind where he can trick himself into believing that he doesn't feel his constant, niggling, sunlight presence. Steve swallows guiltily as Bucky slowly nods, blue-grey eyes anxious over his face.

"Yeah. I... I like coming in here and talking to you. You know so much about everything..."

"It's my job to," Steve says, and Bucky flinches at his short tone. He wants to groan, wants to rub his hands over his face and then maybe punch himself for good measure - is he never going to be able to give the poor kid a break? It's a crush, not some horrific limb-maiming injury he's inflicted on Steve - and Bucky is looking like he wants the fucking floor to swallow him alive.

_You were always on my mind_

"I hate this song," Steve says vindictively, glowering at the speakers attached to the walls in the corners of the room. It's perhaps a subconscious attempt to alleviate the tension; Bucky looks up, listens for a moment, looks at him with those stunning, ethereal eyes.

"Everyone loves this song."

"I hate it. He's being stupid." _Yeah, Steve, you are_. "He should've just come out and said it - should have told her..." He can feel the conversation coming to a crux, and he hates himself for being the one to force himself to show his hand, to open himself up for rejection like he knows is coming - Christ, Bucky has a girlfriend, a girlfriend he's been seeing for three years and is so in love with that it physically pains Steve to look at them - "...should have told her that, y'know, he loved her." He can't look up at him, he _can't_.

Bucky stays quiet, and Steve is trapped in his mind for several moments, playing back Bucky's every smile as he walked into the shop, and then the way it'd slide off his face dismally as Steve turned tail and ran for the storeroom, like the fucking coward he undeniably is. There are so many of those moments. Steve's chest hurts just thinking about them; Bucky's face is always so vibrant, so alive with laughter; seeing it closed off and sad and hurt is foreign and unsettling, and makes Steve's stomach flip-flop in the bad way.

But then, "Maybe he was scared," Bucky says, equally quietly, holding onto the sleeve of one of the jackets, playing absent-mindedly with the brass buttons, rubbing his thumb over the anchor insignia gently, "that she'd reject him. That he was in deeper than she was, so he - so he pushed her away, and he made her think she wasn't important to him, so she... so she was protecting herself by pulling away. Right?"

_Tell me, tell me your sweet love hasn't died_

Steve swallows hard. _Shut the fuck up, Elvis_. "Maybe. But wouldn't telling her have been... better? For both of them? Get the rejection out of the way?"

Bucky's eyes are unfathomable as he stares back at Steve - pale, blue-grey, mercurial - and his brows knit briefly as though he's waiting for something that's not coming, and he can't work out why, before they shut down and the walls behind them get thrown up and he just shrugs it off.  
"I guess. She probably would have, if he couldn't get his shit together. Being in love with someone who refuses to love you back is just... draining. All it does is hurt."

Steve gets the horrible feeling he's still being talked about. Him and his goddamn coward mouth. Won't shut up usually, but the moment he has to say something important - the moment he's meant to be looking in that kid's eyes and telling him how much he fucking loves him, loves him to the moon and back, listens to fucking Elvis Presley songs like _Stuck On You_ and _Always On My Mind_ and fucking _Can't Help Falling In Love With You_ and knows exactly what Elvis means - it clams up, a lump like a golf ball in his throat and his tongue thick in his mouth, and he can't get the fucking words out.

Fucking _coward_.

* * *

Bucky doesn't come back. Steve waits behind the counter every day for weeks - hoping, hoping for that sweet face to appear through the door, that laughing voice, those brilliant quicksilver eyes - but there's no sign of him. Steve changes the tape back to the old one, and thanks God that he doesn't have to hear Elvis taunting him with every emotion he's felt for the past three months constantly in his head. Even so, eventually Tony gets sick of him moping and reminds him that technically this is exactly what Steve wanted when he was still burying his head in the sand and thinking that Bucky would just fly out of his head and heart forever if he just didn't think about him so much. Steve snaps back something so completely vicious and uncalled for (reminding Tony that _maybe people living in glass houses shouldn't fucking throw rocks_ , because exactly _what is it_ that he and Bruce are, because Christ knows Bruce is somehow, for an incredibly intelligent man, fucking stupid enough to be helplessly head over heels for Tony, and Tony spends enough time whining about Bruce that it's fucking obvious that the feeling is reciprocal, but Tony has his head shoved up his ass and is refusing to see that) that Tony - _Tony_ \- is shocked. He just nods dumbly, opens his mouth as though he's about to say something, and then shuts himself in his office for the rest of the shift.

Steve glowers at every customer who has the gall to not be Bucky (which means, _every fucking customer_ ) for the rest of the shift, is curt and almost downright rude when asked for assistance, and shoots furious glances at Tony's office the whole time.

Eventually, just as Steve's rushing one last customer through so that he can close, the bell above the door rings, and a familiar tread steps through over the threshold. His head shoots up, and Bucky is stood by the door, looking at the same coats. Redcoats, like the British military of the 1800s, and more G.I.s' jackets from World War Two, and even an Admiral's jacket from the old Navy issue. He strokes the buttons with long fingers, and glances at Steve with strange, hard-soft eyes.

The customer Steve's serving leaves, and he squeezes out behind the counter to approach him.  
"Hey."

"Hey," Bucky says, almost short. Wary, definitely. His eyes are on Steve's face, his lip worrying between his teeth again. "Long time no see."

"Yeah," Steve agrees, and bites the bullet. Bucky did it for him last time; the least he can do is return the favour. "I missed you."

"Yeah?" Bucky asks, his eyes sharpening, hardening, flint instead of the sea. "Could've fooled me."

"Bucky-"

"I gave you a chance, Steve, a chance for you to stop being such a fucking pussy about it and just tell me. Something was up - I fucking did something, or said something, or whatever fucking happened and you ran away and you couldn't even do me the fucking courtesy of telling me so we could sort it out-"

"I - Buck, it's not - you didn't do anything," he says honestly, and Bucky's eyes narrow.

"Then what the hell happened? One minute we were fine, and then suddenly you just - freak out on me and hide from me like I've got the plague or something for weeks, and then I ask you to just tell me and it just - I don't like mind games, Steve. Whatever it is, just tell me." His eyes are liquid, soft, tears visibly beginning to well along his lash line. He's so young, Christ, just a baby - Steve has no right to be so fucking in love with him, no right at all - "Please."

"Buck, it's - I -"

"You still can't tell me!" Bucky snaps in frustration, rubbing a hand over his face. "D'you need me to fucking say it for you, or what? You love me, Steve. Don't you? Tell me you don't, and I'll call you a fucking liar because that's exactly what you'll be. You fucking love me, and you're too scared to say it."

"Well it's not like it's appropriate!" Steve groans, burying his face in his hands. "You've got - you've got Sharon, she's beautiful and clever and a good dancer and you love her, you said she's your one - I might be in love with you, Bucky, but I'm not gonna break up a relationship between people who love each other because I want one or the other of you - Christ, what do you even take me for?"

" _Steve_ ," Bucky groans, and slams his hand down on the countertop. Steve jumps. "When's the last time you even saw me with her? I came here every day for weeks without her - looking for you. I come here even when you fucking rejected me last time-" He holds up a hand to quell Steve's protests. "No, that's what you fucking did, refusing to say anything is the same as rejection - Sharon hasn't been here in weeks. I have, every fucking day until our argument." He's gazing at Steve with those impenetrable eyes. "What does that tell you?"

Steve doesn't fucking know, honestly. He knows what he wants it to mean - what he's desperate for it to mean, because he would give anything for Bucky to feel even a smidgen of what Steve feels for him in return, but there's no way that's what Bucky could mean. Sharon was his one, he said so - they danced together, they danced to that Sinatra song like they'd just been fucking married -

"Steve," Bucky whines, disbelieving. "Come on. Every fucking day - do you really think I need that many costumes? What else could there be here besides clothes that I wanted to look at for that long?"

Steve is struck dumb; he can't speak, can't fucking think. No. No way -

"You, you moron!"

"But -" he finds his voice, finally, "- but - Sharon - I - what?"

"Steve, I came here every day. Every time I was here, my eyes didn't leave you once - you really think she wouldn't've noticed? Three years is more than enough time to learn someone's tells." He sighed heavily. "We broke up like a week after that competition - the one I fucking know you saw, I saw you when we were dancing the Sinatra number -" _saw that look on your face, that crushed, desperate look that gave you away more than anything you've done or said since_ , "I saw you, Steve, every day for two months, for a couple of seconds before you started running away again." He looks at him, and Steve gets it. Of course he does. He's been understanding subconsciously the whole way along; he's just been in disbelief. He can't help it. Nobody has fucking loved him, or even really _liked_ him much, not since his Ma died.

Bucky is humming. Steve comes a little closer, and Bucky says, "I love you."

"I love you too, Buck," Steve murmurs, and Bucky smiles.

It's too soon, really. They've never even been on a date. They haven't slept next to one another - what if Bucky snores, or worse, Steve does? What if they hate each other's little habits? What if they're just incompatible and end up hating each other?

But what if they _don't_?

It doesn't matter either way. It doesn't matter, because Etta James is on the stereo system, Bucky is taking Steve's hands, and he's leading him across the shop floor and humming along to _At Last_.


End file.
